Culture Crash

Normally, my musical season begins with St. Patrick's Day in March and ends in early October with a few gigs for Columbus Day. Rarely have I played beyond that, with the occasional holiday parade or tree lighting being exceptions to the rule. Most years I pack up my instrument for the Winter and use my weekends to hibernate.

This year, one of the Italian bands I play for was booked for one last job. We weren't sure it was definite until our leader called with directions and more information two days ago. Saturday morning began like any other, with an additional bit of good news in the mail. It seems that when I donated blood, they determined my cholesterol level was 156. The letter warned me that this might not be an accurate figure since I wasn't fasting at the time, but I'm sure whatever I had for breakfast that morning didn't lower the number, at least not drastically. Anything above 200 is borderline high, with 240 being the definitive mark for high blood cholesterol. Without fasting I'd come in a surprising 44 short of the danger zone. I was feeling pretty good as I drove my dad and I to our job.

I've mentioned in the past that, hailing from Brooklyn originally, neither this particular band leader nor his son learned how to drive. As such, their directions are usually inaccurate. Simple things like transposing “street” with “avenue” have sent players miles away from where they were supposed to be in the past. This was a new job, and thankfully not far, but we only had an address to go on. When I pulled in to the empty parking lot of a lodge, 15 minutes before a “parade” was supposed to begin, I found nothing but a security guard and three police cars.

The young guard nervously told us we couldn't park there. I asked if there was to be a parade and pointed out that we were band members, just in case the matching green shirts didn't betray our identities. He said the starting point was up the road a bit, and we'd see tents. Expecting the usual feast area or collection of fire trucks, I drove up the road. I saw the tents, but there was also a massive crowd of Indian people in the brightly colored traditional garb of their homeland. The women balanced coconuts on their head, some of the men sported fake beards, and at least one horse was wearing a blanket covered in gems. Surely the guard was wrong.

I returned to the lodge and found a parking spot on a side street, calling the band leader's son on his cell to verify. Apparently we were in the right place, and they were almost there. A few more band members showed up as the crowd from the tents up the road made their way to the parking lot where we waited. Our usual fare consists of Italian traditional songs and patriotic American marches. My only experience with Indian celebrations had been a wedding reception for one of my college friends, and that was a truncated local ceremony in a restaurant. His real wedding and subsequent reception took place back in India over the course of a week. From what he told me and the photos he had, it involved riding elephants, face paint, and a lot of colorful food. I wondered if our band leader would have music, because I couldn't recall any Indian songs.

It was a strange sight for the neighborhood no doubt, as seven guys in green “Tony & Son” t-shirts and Italian hats stood in a parking lot surrounded by a technicolor sea of Saris. Tony assured us that we could play our regular fare, that the guy who hired us was his old pharmacist from Brooklyn, and had heard us playing for feasts in the past. I thought it was going to be more of a crash of cultures than when we played Italian songs for St. Patrick's Day.

While we waited, one of the people in the ceremony came over and started humming a tune. I listened as some of our trumpet players tried to mimic what the guy was singing. E-F-G. F-G-F-G-F-E. E-F-G. F-G-F-G-F-E. Was that the theme to Peanuts? It did share the same notes, so I played a few bars of that, which got a laugh or two from the guys in the band who recognized it. By repetition, I did learn the Indian song after a few minutes, though we repeated the same phrase so many times I was certain there was another verse to the song we hadn't learned.

The distance from start to finish was maybe four blocks, but the crowd took an hour-and-a-half with frequent pauses. There was singing and chanting, and when we played the new song there was even dancing. I tried to pick up what some of the officials were saying through megaphones, but the only word I recognized might have been ”Krishna”. We still played a few marches and Italian songs, all of which had a good beat they could dance to even if they weren't traditional to such an event. Everyone had a good time, and it was a fun and unexpected day. When we reached our destination, a couple of older ladies from the neighborhood with Italian accents asked us first if we were an Italian band, then what we were doing there.

Have we expanded our repertoire and opened up to a whole new field of clients? Walking back to our cars, I joked that we should advertise our availability for all cultural affairs, provided clients didn't mind if we mostly played Italian songs. I will say that the “E-F-G” tune is still looping in my brain, and will still be there when I wake up in the morning. Viva San Krishna!